


4 am (falling down again)

by knoxoursavior



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon Compliant, Choking, M/M, Softcore Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: On nights like this, he picks up his phone and bathes in its cool blue light as he pressescall.
Relationships: Kurapika/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 14
Kudos: 127





	4 am (falling down again)

**Author's Note:**

> just trying my hand at writing them 👉👈

Kurapika needs him most on moonless nights. Nights when Kurapika is drowning in the shadows, when it’s too dark to be alone—on nights like this, he picks up his phone and bathes in its cool blue light as he presses  _ call. _

It rings once, and then—

“Where are you?” he says, barely even letting Kuroro get a word out before he does. In the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow move. Tall and wide, wrapped in chains. He knows it isn’t real. It isn’t real. It isn’t re—

“Kuroro,” he gasps out, shutting his eyes tight. “I need you.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Kuroro says. It helps, and Kurapika hates that it helps.

Kuroro doesn’t hang up; Kurapika doesn’t either. He listens to the sound of Kuroro’s breaths from the other end of the line, hating himself. Kuroro's every breath is a reminder, an admonition, a physical manifestation of his lack of conviction, his selfishness. To have let him live was madness; to seek him out even more so. But these days, Kurapika finds himself caring less and less about it. If madness is his fate, so be it; he'll die mad.

Then, the call drops, and before Kurapika can pick up his phone to call Kuroro again, there's the sound of the door creaking open.

“Kurapika.”

Kuroro’s palm is warm against his cheek. It’s still as unimaginable as it was the first time—his humanity, his warmth. He’s a monster and a living, breathing human being at the same time, two sides of the same coin that Kurapika has found and can’t seem to let go of. Then again, perhaps Kurapika shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s the same after all.

“Look at me, my love,” Kuroro says. Kurapika does, slow, cautious, and finds Kuroro filling his frame of vision, pale skin shining even in the low light.

“Don’t call me that,” Kurapika says, and Kuroro only smiles back at him, knowing. His words are passed over, taken as an act, a performance, a display of who he was and who he should still be. Kurapika should want to wrap his Judgement chain around Kuroro’s heart and kill him, watch as his eyes lose what little light they have, and yet Kurapika only wants to be held.

“What do you need, my love?” Kuroro asks, leaning further into Kurapika’s space until their foreheads touch and his breath warms Kurapika’s lips.

“My mouth?” Kuroro says, pressing his lips against Kurapika’s in a brief kiss, teasing. Then, “My hands?” as he slides his palm from Kurapika’s cheek down to his neck, down to his collarbone where Kuroro scratches lightly along the length of it, no doubt leaving a faint red mark on the sensitive skin.

“I don’t know, I don’t—” Kurapika lets out a whimper then, as Kuroro’s hand closes around the base of his neck, pressing down just slightly, just enough for Kurapika to  _ want. _ _ “Kuroro.” _

Kuroro’s lips curl upwards into a smile that barely manages to reach his eyes. Kurapika wants punch it off his face. He also wants to kiss it away. He does neither of those things, instead reaching up to push Kuroro’s hand further up his neck until it's pressed flush against his skin, fingers digging into his throat—tighter, tighter,  _ tighter— _

“My hands, then,” Kuroro says, and then there's a hand pulling Kurapika's trousers off of him, underwear in tow. And then there's another kiss pressed against Kurapika's lips, parted lips that take every gasp for air that comes from Kurapika's mouth as fingers tease at his hole. They dip into him, catching on his rim as Kuroro pulls out again, only to smear warmed up slick across Kurapika's skin as he drags his fingers against the flesh of Kurapika's ass.

“So wet already.” The grip around his neck tightens, just a little bit, just enough pressure for Kurapika's vision to blur, just enough for a whine to escape his lips when Kuroro lets up. Kuroro soothes him with a hand running down his torso, catching on his nipple as it does, and another on his thigh, rubbing circles onto his skin. It doesn't quite work, considering where Kurapika would rather his fingers be. “Did you think of me, my Kurapika?”

Kurapika doesn't answer, but Kuroro doesn't seem to need one because he presses on, breath hot against Kurapika's skin. 

“I thought of you all the way here. Can you feel what you've done to me? What you're  _ doing _ to me—”

Kurapika does feel Kuroro, hard against him, and he  _ aches  _ for it. He opens his legs even wider, pushing back against Kuroro's hand on his thigh, asking without asking.

“Kuroro,” he says, and nothing else. He doesn't need anything else, because with just the shape of Kuroro's name on his lips, Kuroro gives him what he wants. Kuroro always gives him what he wants, what he aches for when he's alone, shaking with need, and that's how it is with them. Kuroro gives, and Kurapika takes what he's owed, and they circle around each other like that, stuck in each other's gravity.

“My Kurapika,” Kuroro breathes. He pulls back just a little, only to look at Kurapika like he's a revelation. Something precious, something rare. And perhaps he is. Rare, that is; he's a Kurta after all. If it were just that—if Kuroro has only looked at him like some shiny thing to keep for himself, then perhaps this wouldn't be so difficult. Perhaps Kurapika wouldn't be so—so thrown off balance every time he sees how Kuroro looks at him. Like he's—

“Don't,” Kurapika says. He tries to meet Kuroro's eyes, but he can't, not for long. He looks away, wrapping an arm around Kuroro's shoulders, burying his face in the crook of Kuroro's neck. “Just get on with it. Just—” 

His words dissolve into nothing as Kuroro leans into his space, wrapping one hand around Kurapika's cock and pressing his own against Kurapika's ass.

“My love,” Kuroro says, relentless, and Kurapika has no choice but to listen to the whimper that escapes his own lips, has no choice but to ignore the way he holds onto Kuroro's shoulder, as if he doesn't want to let go. As if he never will.

Kurapika's vision blurs as Kuroro sinks into him, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The world around them shifts and shrinks until all that is left is the two of them, pressed together, so close that Kurapika wonders if they're separate beings at all or the same person born in two bodies. There's only Kuroro's hand around his throat, Kuroro's lips against his skin, Kuroro's cock buried deep within him. There's only them, only their bodies, linked together, only their sighs escaping into the world they're hiding from.

Sometimes, Kurapika thinks that he would like to die like this—naked, removed from the filthy reality of the world, wrapped in Kuroro's impossible warmth. He used to think it his duty to drag Kuroro along with him when he finally falls into Death's embrace, but it's different now. Many things are different, including Kurapika. Now, Kurapika would consider it generous to die with him. With all the awful things they've done collectively, it would be much more than either of them deserve to die with someone else by their side.

Kurapika could do it now. He could wrap Kuroro in his chains and bind him to his death, could follow him after. It would take no effort, would take nothing at all but a split-second decision. But he doesn't. He  _ doesn't, _ and he chooses to lie there, breath thinning out as Kuroro fucks into him, slow and deep, maddening.

He tastes his tears first before he feels them. He tastes them on Kuroro's tongue, tastes the salt as Kuroro whispers sweet, sweet words into his mouth.

_ Beautiful,  _ Kuroro calls him. Kurapika knows this, at least. Kurtas had to be beautiful to be rare, and they had to be beautiful to be killed.

_My love,_ Kuroro calls him. Again and again, enough times that Kurapika thinks he's starting to believe him.

_ Mine,  _ Kuroro calls him, and in these moments, when Kuroro is deep inside him, when Kurapika is out of his mind with pleasure at every little movement of Kuroro's hips, every word out of his mouth, every brush of his lips against Kurapika's skin—

In these moments, with Kuroro all around him, Kurapika thinks,  _ maybe. _

Kurapika doesn't say Kuroro's name when he comes, but he feels it, feels the way it tickles at his throat, coaxing him to speak it into existence. He doesn't say Kuroro's name, but he's afraid that he will, one day, when Kuroro's words manage to plant themselves into his mind and stay there, when Kuroro's hands on his skin manage to feel like they belong there instead of surprising Kurapika every time. When Kuroro becomes just  _ Kuroro.  _ Book-loving, honey-tongued Kuroro who fucks him so sweetly and comes to him when Kurapika needs him.

Kurapika is  _ afraid,  _ and yet he chooses to lie there, pressed against Kuroro even when there's no reason to do so anymore.

He grits his teeth, runs a nail down Kuroro's chest hard enough that it leaves a harsh red line on his skin, says, “Aren't you going to clean us up?” 

Kuroro only presses closer, presses a kiss on the top of Kurapika's head. “I don't want to leave you.”

Kurapika frowns, hates the way his stomach flips at the words.

“If you want to stay here, clean us up.”

Kuroro laughs. “Cruel, my Kurapika.”

He is cruel, but the world is much more cruel, Kurapika thinks, to have done this to him. But he doesn't say that.

“Only to you,” he says instead.

“Cruel only to me,” Kuroro agrees, “and only mine.”

Kurapika doesn't reply, and perhaps that's answer enough. 


End file.
